


Counterparts

by Nebulad



Series: Knight, Knave, and Squire [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Fluff, Gen, platonic fluff, platonic soul mates, pre-Bruma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: Martin’s hands were back on her, prodding to heal and to peel off the bloodied layers of armour. “Gods, you made a mess of yourself,” he tutted quietly.“For a good cause.”“I’m doubting there’s a cause noble enough for such precision torture.” She let her eyes blink open blearily, watching him work.





	Counterparts

Fairne was bloodied by her battle with the King of Miscarcand, and bloodied was only putting it delicately. Her teeth tasted of blood when her tongue ran along them. There was a persistent wound on her side that was only healed enough that it would stop bleeding. She was _certain_ that something in her wrist was fractured, having been grabbed and tossed as she moved to cast a spell.

Nonetheless, she made it back to Cloud Ruler. Martin would still be awake because _of course_ he would be, and he would heal her. She could sleep for a few hours before leaving again, maybe actually speak to the Emperor a while before duty called. He worked too quickly; by the time she got back, he was already a step ahead. Good, of course, but tiring.

Gods she was so tired.

She pushed open the heavy door, wincing as raw skin stretched against her bloodied cuirass. There were too many layers to even light armour, let alone the burden of heavier boots to prevent wear and gauntlets to protect her hands; she felt too heavy, near to collapse. Despite this, she saw Martin before he saw her: and her blood pressure spiked so hard that for a moment, she thought she’d died.

He was wearing armour.

He was looking visibly irritated with Jauffre, and he was wearing armour.

Who’d given him armour?

And why?

“Fairne—” His foul mood broke like a storm upon catching sight of her, but his face drew again seeing how road-weary she was. “Gods, are you hurt?” he asked, stepping cleanly past the grand master and rushing towards her. He was already golden with healing, and clanked as he walked.

“What’s happening?” she asked, trying to straighten up and brush him off. Duty nipped at her heels and she wouldn’t abandon it, no matter how many gates…

… her stomach lurched at the thought of the oppressive red sky, the heat so thick that her lungs struggled for air, the vicious whipping of the harrada slicing open her ankles as she exhausted her magicka desperately trying to fend of the brutal beatings of daedric creatures that smelled fouler than death and rot. The pain of the bruising up and down her side, making her gold skin pucker purple in pain, nearly crippled her as she thought of the suffocating darkness tinged with red, how her eyes _burned_ as she struggled out into Tamriel once more, how she laid in the dirt and wept in fear, praying that no soldiers crowded her to see…

Gods, she would bear it. She would bear it if he asked her to.

“Sit down a moment,” he insisted, pushing her into a chair. Who was she to argue, when he had the weight of heavy armour to help him strong arm her? “Show me where you’re injured,” he insisted with the contradicting clinical warmth of a priest. She resisted nonetheless, her eyes flashing between him and the irate Jauffre.

“Martin, please—”

“It can wait a moment, Fairne, you worry too much.” The smile he shot her was _nearly_ convincing, and she swallowed back tears. Fear: fear of the gates, fear of the Badlands, fear of being to slow, too weak, not enough, never enough— he needed her and she’d injured herself so badly she’d thought she’d have to get one of the others to open the bloody doors for her.

“I’d say she’s sufficiently worried,” Jauffre commented mildly, and Martin’s patience once again strained across his face.

“We have no other options,” he returned, fighting to stay his temper. She’d heard that those with dragon blood battled with the will of a dragon— or more frequently, let such a strong instinct consume their humanity. On impulse she reached out to brush his hair from his face, her hand trembling. “I was hasty to bring out the armour,” he said to her, his voice low. “Had I known you’d return in time, I would’ve waited.”

Her voice trembled. “You were going to go without me?”

“By necessity,” he promised, his hand squeezing her knee gently. Luckily it was one of her less injured bones, so she let the pain wash over her and fade out like a rolling fog. “I didn’t know when you’d be back, and I feared what hesitation would bring on the morning; but you clearly need to rest.”

“Rest for _what?”_ She sounded nearly hysterical and perhaps she was— pain and stress collapsing her fragile ribcage all at once. He hushed her and stopped his requests for injury locations. He began to heal, magically prodding her for sensitivity in a way that was near-painless. She slouched.

“Let me change for a moment; it wouldn’t do to rush into this anyway. We’re once again lucky that your sense of timing is so precise,” he murmured. “Sit here and I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Sire—” Jauffre began.

“This is still happening,” he said firmly. “As soon as Fairne is able to move, we’ll go.”

A heartbeat passed, and the grand master sighed. “As you wish. The Blades are, of course, at your disposal,” he said, his voice wary and weary but otherwise hiding no ill-will. Whatever was happening was _bad,_ but necessary. Foolish, but there really must’ve been no alternatives.

She mixed potions in her mind, trying to simultaneously take stock of what she’d gathered since she’d last mixed and sold off her supply, and make plans for what she would sell, until Martin returned. He was wearing plain clothes instead of his robes, and immediately moved so she could stand and lean on him. “We’ll go to my quarters and catch you up,” he said, purposely avoiding Jauffre and Baurus’ eyes. “The rest of you should make preparations, and rest.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Baurus answered for the lot of them. Fairne smiled at him weakly as Martin ushered her down past the barracks, an unspoken struggle ensuing for who would support the lot of her weight. The healer thought the healthy one should do it, while the knight thought her lord shouldn’t. She ended up collapsing on his bed when all was said and done anyway, exhaling until she feared flattening out and disappearing into the blankets. Not such a bad fate, considering her myriad of likely alternatives.

Martin’s hands were back on her, prodding to heal and to peel off the bloodied layers of armour. “Gods, you made a mess of yourself,” he tutted quietly.

“For a good cause.”

“I’m doubting there’s a cause noble enough for such precision torture.” She let her eyes blink open blearily, watching him work. Something different came over him while he healed, an authority he resisted when it was simply him and the Xarxes. _There,_ he wanted to help but not to lead. _Here,_ he was comfortable with taking charge.

“I’m wrecking your bed.”

“You know I don’t mind.” He seemed ready to enforce his indifference by keeping her down— it wouldn’t do for the patient to walk away— but as she was fairly certain that she would never have the strength to move again, he needn’t have worried. “And I owe you an explanation,” he added.

“That’s putting it harshly,” she mumbled, then abruptly remembered the reason she was so ferociously beaten— the reason outside closing Oblivion Gates, anyway. “I have the Welkynd Stone,” she said, trying to lift herself on her arms.

“I’ll take it from your pack before we leave,” he assured her. “And since you’ve brought it, that means we need only one more piece of the puzzle.”

They were close. Closer than she’d thought, closer than she’d dared to hope. The resounding _thank the gods_ that poured from her like an actual prayer was a bit more candid than she wanted to be. He laughed, though, which more than made up for the moment of weakness. “I’m sorry, it’s just… I’m eager to see it all ended. The Badlands…” she trailed off, unable to fully articulate what she meant; what she was willing to share with him.

“Your wounds tell me more than I thought to ever know about them,” he said, nearly haunted. “I fear you’ll scar from the burns.”

No skin off her nose— figuratively, as the perpetual sunburn did tend to peel quite a bit. “It’s all right,” she assured him, rolling over on her back and helping him pull off her cuirass. “There’ll be more scars than that before we’re through.”

“It shames me that you take them on my behalf,” he told her, wincing as her bruised, broken torso came into proper view. His hands moved at the same, steady pace; she wasn’t sure if that meant it wasn’t as bad as it felt, or if he was simply too professional to incite a panic. “But your job is nearly done, and then I can begin to repay you.”

“You’re not accumulating debt.”

“You can hardly move for the pain, and think to tell me I owe you nothing?” He shook his head absently and she watched him through the thick fog of Restoration. They stayed quiet for a while, while Martin pushed the residual pain out of her as if he cut secret seams and let the poison seep out. She was half numb, but her head grew clearer every moment without the burden of agony. “You’ll need to rest for at least the night, and that’s if we push you— which I would rather not.”

“We have to,” she said, despite the fact that he hadn’t filled her in yet. “I don’t mind.”

“I know,” he said gravely. “but I do.” He sighed and helped her sit up as she struggled to do so on her own, arranging her somewhat comfortably but wordlessly insisting she stay reclined. “The Great Welkynd Stone needs a counterpart— like the daedric artifact needed the aedric artifact,” he began with little introduction, no doubt sensing her impatience.

“So what does that mean?”

“I should have seen it before,” he said ruefully. “What we need now it a sigil stone from a Great Gate— like the one at Kvatch.”

“I couldn’t hang on to—” It’d been too _hot,_ and she hadn’t the experience she did now. It seemed like lifetimes ago, but she remembered distinctly dropping the sigil stone of Kvatch’s gate and giving herself severe burns in the process. Had that… had that even been a Great Gate, or had they closed it before she’d arrived? Gods help her, she couldn’t even remember.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stroking her hair back. “We’re sort of… dubiously lucky, in that sense. I have a plan, but you won’t like it. Jauffre hates it and the to say that the Countess of Bruma will dislike it is a massive understatement, but… we have no other option.”

“Would you tell me what it is?” she asked wearily. She doubted she had the energy to be properly horrified, or disapproving, or whatever emotion Martin expected of her.

“We’re going to let the Mythic Dawn open their Great Gate against the walls of Bruma.”

Scratch that.

“I knew we shouldn’t have left you alone with the Xarxes,” she hissed, sitting up.

“Fairne.”

“Clearly you’ve gone mad. It’s in your genes, you know— or perhaps you don’t, but have you ever heard of Pelagius because I really think he’s the only one—”

“Fairne, listen to me.”

“—I’ll do it, of course. I’ll do it.” Her backtracking was less a wordless apology for insulting him and more… resigning herself to it. Regular gates were taxing on her system, but suddenly her nerves were _intimately_ remembering the burning of the sigils stones, like one’s mouth did when remembering a taste particularly sour. “Gods, they never set an easy task before us, do they? I’ve never led one person into battle let alone… well we’ll need quite a few to protect Bruma while we do this.”

“Stop babbling, _please._ You needn’t worry about leading the army.”

“Is Jauffre coming down?” About time the old man got in on the action, in her opinion. There was something inherently distasteful about leaving his brothers to fight on their own, to protect Emperors against impossible odds on their own, while he lived _quietly as a monk in Weynon Priory._ All well and good to spy and whatnot, but he’d allowed things to grow dire under his watch; strictly speaking, _Fairne_ hadn’t lost the Amulet of Kings.

“He will be, yes, but he’ll not lead the armies. I will,” Martin said, anticipating _something_ out of her by the way he pressed his hand to her shoulder to keep her still.

The armour flashed before her eyes, the thrice-cursed _armour._

“Under _no_ circumstances,” she said faintly.

He smiled thinly. “I’m afraid the decision’s been made.”

“No.”

“Fairne.”

“I said _no,_ Martin, and that’s it. You’re not expendable like us—”

“Gods _blood,_ don’t say things like that.”

“It’s _true,”_ she hissed, trying to straighten up. She had an absurd amount of height on him that was going to waste while she glowered upwards like a surly teenager. “What does it matter if I die? If Baurus dies? The Dragonfires will be lit regardless, so long as _you’re_ safe.”

He breathed evenly out his nose, evidently having already been tired of this argument after he finished it with Jauffre the first time. “Do you remember what I told you, back in Kvatch?”

“Yes, you said _I will not leave this chapel_ and I’m starting to miss the reclusiveness.”

“I _said_ I didn’t want any part in the gods plan.” She remembered, despite herself. “I still don’t know if there is a divine plan, but I’ve come to realise that it doesn’t matter; what’s important is that we _act,_ that we do what’s right when confronted with evil.” His patience slipped for a moment, and he almost sounded agitated. At least he’d given this fool plan some considerable thought. “It wasn’t the gods that saved us at Kvatch, it was _you.”_

Her stomach clenched and unclenched in a bizarre mixture of pride and panic. Her foolishness shouldn’t have inspired him; gods, she’d only _stumbled_ upon Kvatch on her way to Skingrad. She’d wanted to pick flowers and something had… _compelled_ her to stop, despite not being entirely sure that she would live through whatever she was pausing for. “Perhaps it was the gods acting through me, who you ought to give more consideration to when _arguing.”_

“I don’t know if that’s true either,” he said, treating her jab with an unwarranted amount of solemnity. “But now it’s my turn to act, Fairne.” And he gave her that _look,_ stripped bare of all his bearings: he was lost and overwhelmed and trying to keep his head above water and somehow she’d become his only buoy. Forget that she was just as helpless as him— though her job had an end-date. Once Martin was done here, he would be whisked away to be Emperor for blood above proper training. He could only be guided by his conscience and he didn’t trust himself, but…

For some reason, he trusted her.

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” she mumbled, loathe to let him think she approved.

“I don’t need obedience,” he insisted, shifting closer to her. She let her head loll on his shoulder as he made himself comfortable— a bribe, she supposed. She would stay put so long as he did, because gods knew he needed more sleep than he’d been getting. “I need as much of your judgement as you can stand to give me.”

“I hate your plan,” she whispered, and he laughed.

“I know. I explained it to you, though, so you could explain it to the Countess. I’m a stranger to her, but you’re a hero; we _need_ her approval to move forward.” Dread dropped into her stomach as she thought of the trial ahead; not only did she have to enter a Great Gate, but she had to convince the Countess of Bruma to endanger the lives of everyone in the city. Evacuation was useless, because the Dawn would attack them on sight _and_ be tipped off to major movement— if they failed at Bruma, then… it would be gone. All of it, and everyone in it.

“I hate it, but I’ll do it,” she said, shifting them more comfortably. She’d assumed that sleep would be elusive, with her injuries and her hairline trigger borne out of gate closing, and now knowing what Martin had planned for the morning. Luckily her body decided that the best way to handle the stress was to collapse, and so she let herself do so while trying to memorise the way Martin’s fingers felt stroking through her hair.

 _Jauffre’s going to kill me,_ she thought, unable to bring herself to care before she fell asleep.

. . . . .

Fairne politely opened the door for the Countess on her arm— the one who’d very scornfully spat that her _prince wanted to put their people in danger, and for what?_ She’d had to resist the urge to snort because she could so perfectly picture Martin’s expression at the word _prince._ Maybe she’d recount the tale to him later, just to see it; he needed to be taken down a few notches anyway, after this Bruma fiasco. Heroism so frequently went to the head, and she would’ve preferred to avoid her own method of keeping humble which was usually a fireball to the face.

The prince himself looked jarringly handsome in the dim light that filtered in through the stained glass windows of the Temple of Talos. His armour gleamed, but rather than being ostentatious it seemed to make him glow golden as he leaned on the altar, watching the dust mites float against the rising sun. He was— had been, anyway— a priest of Akatosh rather than Talos, his ancestor; by all accounts he seemed rather unmoved by the display around him. _Imperial to the bone,_ she thought wryly, which wasn’t fair. As an amnesiac Altmer, the only thing she knew about religion was that _Akatosh_ sounded strange to her ears: she referred to the god as Auri-El, which was endlessly interesting to Martin.

 _I don’t even know why I do it,_ she defended lamely as he pressed her for details about Summerset worship. _For all I know I’ve never even been to the island._

“Your Highness,” the Countess said tersely. It wasn’t disrespectful, but frightened: a defensible position, all things considered, and one that Fairne knew Martin wouldn’t hold against her.

“Please, I would hardly ask you to stand on ceremony in such dire times. Martin is fine,” he said, despite the _look_ Jauffre had. It would be nothing compared to the Council, of course, when the Emperor was finally seated, but Fairne still bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Martin, then. Your Champion has explained the situation to me— Bruma is ready to serve.” She bowed low and Martin’s eyes fluttered to Fairne. _Champion,_ he mouthed with a grin, and she ducked her head. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the embarrassing smile on her face.

“I will do _everything_ in my power to protect your city, my lady,” he said, earnestly (and schooling his expression when she looked up again). Martin was a powerful mage, but Fairne rather thought his true magic was at work with the Countess; she recognised the woman’s expression. Narina Carvain saw genuine concern, something _real_ and _important_ in Martin’s eyes, and it softened her, _spoke_ to her. There was something so raw and and kind that it made the heart skip beats the brain couldn’t even process.

They took confidence for a moment, Fairne and the other Blades falling back to talk amongst themselves while Martin and Narina discussed concrete strategy and troop movements that’d been sketched out the night before. “Where should I be when the fighting starts?” Fairne asked Jauffre, despite every cell in her body demanding to glue herself to Martin’s side. Technically there was rank and hierarchy to respect, no matter how well suited she was to meat shielding.

“Didn’t you hear?” Baurus asked smugly. “You’re the Emperor’s _champion._ You’re his to move as he sees fit.” It was all in fun, so Fairne laughed and shoved him a little.

“No one asked you.”

“As you say, _champion.”_

Jauffre drew himself up and both soldiers paused. “As lightly as the two of you seem to take it, the fact remains that Martin will indeed direct you as he sees fit. No doubt you’ll be in charge of closing the Great Gate before the war machine breaks through.” Dread coiled in her stomach, souring the light mood. She’d never seen a war machine before, but was still unable to recall if the monstrosity had already passed through Kvatch and returned into the Gate by the time she arrived, or if she’d only had to battle a lesser version of what was to come. The worst thing about Gates was that the only thing that could truly be remembered about them was the flame.

She was saved from having to reply by Martin and Narina returning, both looking solemn but steely. “If Bruma falls,” the Countess said, stiff with formality and nerves, “then the Empire falls with us. So be it. If you give me an hour I can be ready to man the defenses within the walls.” She bowed again and turned, not waiting to be dismissed— probably a good thing, because Martin wouldn’t have known he had to dismiss her before she could leave anyway. Fairne stepped forward to walk her back to the palace, but she politely declined. There was something admirable about strong rulers heading their own armies.

It still made her blood pressure spike, but she liked it regardless.

“When you and the Countess are ready, the men will stop closing gates,” Martin said, approaching her casually. She’d expected him to be more tense than he was, but his determination seemed purely mental. Physically, he’d perhaps resigned himself to the battle before him. “She asked me to wish you gods speed, as she had to leave so quickly. It would seem our fates are once again in your hands.”

“On a technicality,” she corrected, falling into step with him and he made his way to the doors.

“You think so? If we manage this, then you’ll be a hero.”

“ _You’ll_ be a hero. _I’ll_ be a finely roasted Altmer with less hair than even brains,” she teased. They stepped into the light and found the men crowded at the foot of the stairs, staring up in a mixture of fear and hope. Martin raised his hand and managed some sort of wave, and they began calling his name and cheering. “See?” she asked pointedly, descending beside him.

“Gods help us.” A path cleared before them as if by magic, and while Fairne tried to fall into step behind him as Baurus and Jauffre had, he pulled her back to his side. “Oh no you don’t,” he laughed, sounding almost frightened. “If I have to bear this, so do you.”

“Very mature, Your Highness,” she teased. He ignored her, very nobly bearing his accolades until they finally pushed aside the gates of Bruma to step out into the snowy winter air. The silence felt ringing, but they all welcomed it— the cheering was that of terrified civilians waiting to know if they would be pillaged by daedra before the sun had risen, and soldiers bracing themselves to taste hellfire. To bask in it would’ve been tasteless at best.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Martin told her, letting his posture drop a little. Jauffre and Baurus began to direct foot soldiers into formation, so Fairne and him were off the hook until the Countess was ready. “The sight of you will give our army strength.”

“I _have_ heard that Imperials love gold.”

He laughed, but shook his head. “I’m trying to tell you that you look good,” he scolded lightly.

“What?”

“In your full armour. You look heroic and rugged— its comforting.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, and she felt him press healing magic into her palm which seemed _awfully_ close to fussing for her liking, but… she allowed it. He frightened her, insisting upon leading the soldiers. If she was to retrieve the stone, that meant she couldn’t guard him for the duration of her time within the Gate; to be fair, though, she would have to run through the Badlands as if Hircine was chasing her in order to shut it before the war machine could slip out to beat the walls of Bruma.

“It’s only iron,” she protested, slouching a little to speak to him more softly.

“It’s not the armour so much as it’s you. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you the whole time, Fairne; you’re the hero, not me. I’m just a man who sits behind his desk and draws a map for you to follow.” He was being kind and he _knew_ she didn’t know what to do with it when he was.

“And yet here you are. Maybe you should jump back behind the desk and—”

“Hardly,” he said, beaming. “But I’m right. Even the Countess could hardly stand to speak to me, asking where you would be and what you thought of everything.”

“What did you tell her?”

“What do you think? I told her you hated the plan but were willing to follow me.”

“Martin! You shouldn’t have told her I hated it—”

“Why not? She hates it too; it’s a very easy plan to hate. Unfortunately our hands are being forced, so your faith in me is… welcome.” He averted his eyes, then sharply refocused, fighting through embarrassment. “More than welcome. I don’t know what I’ve done to inspire it besides be right about a few translations, but sometimes the thought of you was the only thing that kept me from despair. That’s _worth_ something, heroic on its own even forgetting the constant mortal peril you put yourself in because I asked.”

She said nothing. She had nothing _to_ say. This was all so bizarre and backwards, when she’d thought the conversation would drift towards the Countess eventually. She’d meant to ask him what he thought of her, simply because eventually the Emperor would have to be wed to prevent this whole thing from happening again; she was sort of curious in advance of who would sit beside him and by extension, be her new charge. She liked Narina, and the alternative was the widow of Chorrol whom she was… less fond of.

Instead now, he was trying to tell Fairne that she was inspiring. Imagine that: an Altmer ex-con who couldn’t even remember what she’d done, where she’d done it, who she was or where she came from, inspiring courage in the future Emperor of Tamriel. What a world this turned out to be.

 _You are the one from my dreams,_ Uriel had told her.

 _You ought to have had more dreams of your son,_ she’d thought later.

“If you’re telling me this because you think you’re going to die then save it,” she said instead of anything meaningful. She was a pawn, a foot soldier, a servant, a subject; she didn’t have his pretty words to tell him that no one had ever cared about her since she woke up. That she was afraid of who she’d been before. That she wasn’t even sure if she’d existed before Akatosh had sent her to guide him, and wasn’t sure she cared if she was really no one at all.

The Countess crested the hill with her men, prepared to give the signal and retreat. Fairne straightened up and Martin smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “Never change, Fairne,” he hummed, his hand on his sword. _You’re a mage, use magic. Gods there’s so much he doesn’t know._ She took to her full height, hands in the proper Summerset position for casting (or so she’d been told by an enthusiastic Altmer who’d thought she was meeting a fellow islander). Several of the assembled, including Martin and the Countess, looked to her with something akin to awe in their eyes.

Fine, then. If Martin wanted her to be an inspiration, she would do that as well.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and I'm also [open for commissions](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com/post/162182264019/writing-commissions)! Check out both of those things.
> 
> And I finally wrote Oblivion fic. Fairne was based off Brienne of Tarth before Brienne of Tarth ever existed.


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